


Hearts of Summer

by Rainah (RainahFiclets)



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 23:26:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12376323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainahFiclets/pseuds/Rainah
Summary: “Come an sit.” Alexander leads his son over to the sofa. “I want to tell you a story.” The story of a boy with summertime in his heart, of war-torn kisses, of how he loved and loved and lost





	Hearts of Summer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leidilaurens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leidilaurens/gifts).



> unbeta'd  
> very unbeta'd
> 
> Hope you like it, I tried to hit as many elements as possible. All letter fragments are verbatim, though I wiggled around with the timelines of some of them to suit the plot.

When Alexander is young, he thinks he knows what love is. It’s the girls he chases after with Ned, pretty girls with whirling skirts and laughs that sound like sunshine. They’re pretty and new and _perfect_ and he feels like if he can do it, to make one of those pretty girls look his way, he’ll be a better man. 

Ned has more luck, of course. Ned is the son of a wealthy man, Alexander is the employee of a wealthy man. Ned is handsome, and tall, and broad-shouldered in a way that Alexander knows he will never match. But he is young, he is in love, and there is summertime in the air.

He kisses a girl named Celia in a grassy meadow out by her school (not his school, never his school, Anglican school was for children who had been born legitimate) and feels like his heart is singing. He can’t walk out of the school building with her, but he can kiss her under the trees and brush back a lock of her hair and see her blush in the afternoon light. 

It’s perfect and magical and he’s bursting to tell Ned the moment he gets home. “I’m going to marry her,” he declares, with all the reckless bravado of seventeen.

“Oh?” Ned asks, one eyebrow cocked and a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth. “And what are you going to do once you marry her? Where are you going to live?” _Not with us_ , his tone implies. Celia would expect better than to live on Alexander’s meager wages and the charity of his friend’s family.

“We’ll move to a different island,” Alexander decides. “And we’ll farm the land, and have each other, and be so happy-” He’s cut off as Ned tackles him. The boys grapple for a moment, then Ned hooks his legs around Alexander’s waist and pins him to the floor. 

“You’d never be happy on a farm.” Ned’s breath is in his face. “You were made for more than that, Alex.”

“Not unless I have something to show for it,” Alexander protests. “Celia and I-”

“Yes, Alexander, as you say.” Ned sighs, and leans forward to press a kiss to Alexander’s forehead. It burns, in a way that it never has before. 

“Celia's a worthy girl,” He insists, eyes wide. He has a chance at something, here, something he didn’t have before.

“Sure,” Ned says easily. He moves like he’s going to kiss Alexander on the forehead again, then hesitates. Quickly, before Alexander can utter a word of encouragement or protest, he presses a kiss to Alexander’s lips.

“Celia’s a fine girl. But is that what you want?”

He doesn’t marry Celia. Three weeks later their courtship has ended, and she’s in the arms of another boy, one who will cater to her whims like Alexander won’t. He writes, furiously, and has some satisfaction when his poems are accepted into the newspaper.

 _You’re made for better things,_ Ned told him. _Is that what you want? What do you want, Alexander?_

Not this. Not this.

He leaves them both behind, and boards a ship for America. 

In America he joins the army. There’s a war brewing, a rebellion, a sense of hope in the air. A chance to fulfil his promise, to reach out and grasp something worth having. It means late nights spent copying out letters for the general, cold winds in Valley Forge, and fierce metallic taste of blood and battle in his mouth. 

In America he meets John Laurens. In Washington’s tent they sit side by side, writing until their hands ache and bumping knees. Alexander can’t help stealing glances, every so often, at the man beside him. It’s how he comes to know the way John’s hair glints in the sunlight, the dust of freckles across his face, the smile that raises his lips when he finishes a particularly difficult translation.

(Alexander has heard John speak French, Latin, Greek. He wants to hold those phrases in his mind, to focus on the way John’s lips wrap around the syllables and cadences… and not on his grammar, which is atrocious)

Sometimes, he thinks he sees John watching him too. John’s glances are quick, furtive. At night, when they share a bed (too many aides to waste any space, the bed is small but they both can fit) John keeps to the far edge of the bed. It’s only in sleep that he relaxes, face smooth and body sprawled. Alexander waits for him to fall asleep, then tucks himself under one of John’s arms to keep warm and thinks.

John is furtive, except when he’s not. Most of the time, he is bursting with energy. They run together, up to the creek in the woods, to splash in the shallow water and sprawl on the grass, debating philosophy as they eat their rations. Summer is blooming, and the tide of the war is beginning to turn.

And when it happens, it feels inevitable.

They’re laying on the grass, Alexander under John’s arm, letting the weak sun dry their skin. Alexander is in the middle of his explanation of why Spartan traditions of male relationships were superior to Greek when John twists over and looms suddenly above him. Alexander sucks in a breath but doesn’t move. Whatever’s in his face must be enough, because John leans over and presses their lips together. When he pulls back Alexander is already scrambling, seeking, trying to taste more. 

John is happy to oblige.

They lay there, stretched out on the grass, skin long-dry but sparking with heat. John’s lips, and soon his hands, turn every part of Alexander to bliss.

He thinks, _this is what I want. Nothing can feel better than this._

He never knew there could be such joy, in a war. That here, in the midst of battle and worry and working his hands to the bone, he could find the things he's seeking. Joy. Fulfilment. Love. Success. Community. The aides all call themselves family, and enjoy hazing on new members. So it is with utter seriousness that the general informs them that they are not to even think about playing pranks on their newest member, the esteemed Marquis de LaFayette. 

Alexander bites back a laugh at the general’s mispronunciation of the French name. He catches John’s eye, and sees his own humour reflected there. 

“Probably a fop,” John announces, to the great amusement of all of the aides. 

“He’s rich,” Tilghman sighs. “We need him to pay for the likes of Alexander here, who does the real work.”

(Alexander’s objection is in the form of a book thrown across the room, after which there is much chaos and very little work done.)

When Lafayette does come bounding into camp, jabbering away in rapid French to anyone who can understand him, they all eat their words. The Frenchman is _tall_ , well muscled, and handles his sword with deadly precision. If excitable, he is a bright and pleasant companion as they continue to toil towards a victory. 

Alexander is captivated. At night, during one of Steuben’s rakish parties, he finds himself in the corner sipping wine and watching Lafayette dance with the other aides. A set of legs bumps into his, and he looks up at John’s face creased into a frown.

“I know,” John says, but before Alexander can make any sort of protest - he's just watching - John shuffles in beside him and lays his head on Alex’s shoulder. Now they’re both looking at Lafayette. “I know. God. He is something, is he not?”

“Very handsome,” Alexander agrees. “But John, I was just-” just what? Looking? Imagining? Will John think him guilty of some infidelity?

But all John says is, “me too,” and nuzzles against Alexander’s neck. “Do you think he may also be swayed by your arguments on Spartan arrangements?”

Alexander can’t hide his smile. “Likely not,” he says, and John sighs wistfully. “It is a small consolation, but can I interest you in a dance, Mr Laurens?”

A shiver runs down his spine as John’s mouth finds his ear. “Of _course_ you can, Mr Hamilton.”

They dance the night away, safe under the cover of general debauchery, and the next day are told that Laurens is leaving. No time to delay, to protest, just to say goodbye.

“South Carolina,” Alexander groans, facedown on the bed. “Is too far. The general can send someone else.”

John, who is sorting through his belongings and shoving several into a bag, doesn’t look up. “You know there’s no one else.”

“Damn the war.”

“Just last night you were thanking god for the war.”

“ _Damn_ the war.”

“Alexander,” John says, and finally looks up. “Will you write to me?”

“Of course,” Alexander says, mouth going dry. “Every day. And it won’t be too long before you’re back. We need you here when we win this thing.”

“Yes, of course,” John says, but he’s gone back inside himself. Neither of them mention what will happen when the war is over, when there is no long a pretext for two men to share a bed. Alexander gets a perfunctory kiss goodbye, and a squeeze on his shoulder that says more than any kiss could for how scared John is to be leaving.

So he writes. He writes letter after letter, and cherishes each response he gets. John has never been one for keeping up with correspondence, but he fills pages with the minutiae of the South Carolina senate, the battles he fights, and his growing despondency.

 _I wish it were in my power, Dear Laurens,_ Hamilton writes, in the darkness of his workroom with the moon in the sky, _it might be in my power, by action rather than words, convince you that I love you._

_I love you. Come back to me._ He doesn’t want to think of the practicalities right now, he just wants John back in his arms.

It doesn’t stop him, however, from finding diversions elsewhere. John has a wife, Alexander reasons, he can’t judge his lover for a discreet affair. Not while he’s half a world away in South Carolina. He goes to the winter’s ball with a spring in his step and a rakish smile, shoving Burr hard in the ribs any time they spotted a woman.

“If you could marry a sister, you’re rich, son,” Burr observes drily, as Angelica Schuyler and her sisters enter the room.

 _I’m not going to marry a sister,_ ” Alexander thinks, even as he trots out the hilarious reply. Angelica is fiercely beautiful, though, so the first chance he gets he shoves Lafayette out of the way and steps in front of her. “You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied.”

It’s a line he’s used before, and it gets him the usual response. A cursory look over and a cautious reprimand; “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” And then she adds, in a sharper tone, “you forget yourself.” A warning.

It’s enough to make him press forward, into her space. “You’re like me, I’m never satisfied.”

She looks back, just for a moment, and Alexander knows he has her. “Is that right?” Angelica Schuyler asks skeptically, but she can’t hide the sudden frown of uncertainty, the way her eyes follow his, or the way she trembles when he takes her hand. It’s electric, sensational, and he wants to close his eyes and let the current wash them both away.

He would have, too, had it been his choice. Angelica takes him by the hand (He thinks she’s taking him outside, where they can be alone. Or, even better, upstairs.)

Instead she leads him over to the corner, where a girl in blue is blushing prettily. “Elizabeth Schuyler. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Schuyler?” Alexander asks, because this is not what he was expecting.

“My sister,” Angelica says, in a tone that brokers no argument. Alexander will dance with her, and he will make her happy. 

So Alexander does his duty, whirling her around the dance floor and trying not to be too obvious that he’s trying to keep an eye on her sister.

“She’s dancing with the general,” Eliza informs him bluntly, as the next dance starts up.

Oops. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, my lady,” he tries. And he focuses his attention, for the first time, on Eliza herself. 

She’s young, younger that her sister, but just as composed. Impeccably dressed, but with a sweetness he didn’t see in Angelica. If he was looking for a wife (he is not) she would be the one he pursued. 

(He will need a wife, John already _has_ a wife, if he wants to make himself into a success he will need a wealthy and well-connected woman at his side. He knows this. He _knows_ this.)

Eliza just sighs. “They always want to dance with Angelica. It’s fine,” she adds, as he goes to protest, “she always steals the spotlight, and how can I blame her?”

“They’re wrong,” Alexander tells her. Eliza’s eyes shoot up, warm and brown and lovely. Suddenly, he feels bad. She deserves better than this. “My lady,” he asks, mouth going dry, “may I have another dance? A proper one?”

She looks at him carefully, trying to be reticent but unable to hide the colour that rides high on her cheeks. “You may.”

She’s a good dancer, and laughs with delight when Alexander spins her. It’s a very pretty laugh. They retire to the garden after, to sit on a stone bench and talk in the cool night air.

It’s nice. It’s not the ease of talking to John - he is on guard, talking to a proper lady, he doesn’t want to slip up or curse or say something inappropriate - but it’s thrilling nonetheless, a careful back and forth. He wants to impress her, to inspire her, this beautiful young woman who believes in their cause. They trade stories back and forth, Alexander telling her about the war, while Eliza fills his head with stories of her rambunctious sisters.

And it’s nice, so nice that when he has to go back inside and continue dancing (or risk impropriety, having spent too much time alone with one woman) he looks her right in the eyes and says, “may I write to you?”

And when Eliza says “you may,” with all the dignity that befits a daughter of Philip Schuyler, she shines so brightly he can’t imagine anyone overlooking her for her sister.

He returns to camp with his head muddled, from the dancing as much as the wine. Eliza is…

He shakes his head, trying to clear it. Eliza is incredible. Warm, refined, adorable. He could write sonnets about her dimples and the sparkle in her eyes.

 _But John._ John, who is suffering in Pennsylvania as a prisoner of war. John, who already has a wife and has made clear his desire for Alexander to find one as well. John, who is sinking into a melancholy so deep Alexander is starting to worry.

Time goes on.

He writes to Eliza, _You engross my thoughts too entirely to allow me to think of anything else—you not only employ my mind all day; but you intrude upon my sleep. I meet you in every dream—and when I wake I cannot close my eyes again for ruminating on your sweetness._

Alexander sighs. His pen falters. Off to the right lays his latest letter from John, the one that makes his brow crease in worry. His reply sits, waiting to be mailed off, but he pulls it closer to add a postscript. _The stars fight against us my friend._

John and Eliza. Eliza and John. What is he to do? What is any man to do?

His growing relationship with Eliza is a joy. She is everything he needs, everything he wants. He has zero doubts that she will stand by him through the difficult days ahead, and they share the same feelings towards family, towards politics, towards the home they want to build.

But he cannot shake the thought that to cut off John, to lose John, would be like losing a part of himself too.

It is with a heavy heart he writes, a week later, _Next fall completes my doom. I give up my liberty to Miss Schuyler._ He hesitates. _She is a good hearted girl, who-_

 _A girl who won’t betray us_ , he wants to write. He’s told her about John, editing heavily, and she thinks it charming he is so close to his wartime friends. (It helps that said friend is the eldest son of Henry Laurens). He likes to believe she’d support him even if she knew the whole truth.

He writes and he writes and he writes. _In spite of Schuyler’s black eyes, I have still a part for the public and another for you._ He loves them both, will always love them both. They will have to find a way. He writes to Eliza, she is in agreement. Wherever they go, Alexander’s closest friend is welcome to follow.

He writes to John at once, an impassioned letter full of plans and promises; _we have fought side by side to make America free, let us hand in hand struggle to make her happy,_ and signs it, _yrs for ever_. It would be difficult to be more clear than that. 

The letter doesn’t arrive in time. 

In the weeks that follow, the days of crushing grief and manic writing, Alexander wonders if he’d made a mistake. If he’d pushed too far, dared too much. If he had remained unmarried, chosen John clearly and cleanly, would the man have sunk so far into depression as to lead his reckless and final charge?

But if he had chosen John, he would have lost Eliza. He would have lost the fierce, intelligent, and steadfast woman who helped him survive it. 

Because somehow, he does. His heart does not mend, but the wound scabs over. These days, seventeen years after John’s death, he feels like he can breath. He never falls in love again, not in the same way. His flirtations with Angelica are harmless, his affair with Maria a mistake of loneliness and exhaustion, and Burr… it was just stress relief, from long nights of building their country. He has other things to fill his time now. Work, purpose. A family and children. God, Philip is almost a man. 

In his son Alexander finds a different kind of love. It’s the love of a parent; fierce, proud, protective. He would do anything, be anything, for his son. So when he comes home to see Philip sitting by the window, looking dejected, he drags a chair over. “What’s on your mind?”

The look of fear Philip shoots him is a shock. “Nothing,” he says quickly, and looks down at his hands.

Alexander’s mind races. “Did you fail a class?” That might be it.

“No! No, I haven’t failed a class.”

“Is it about Theodosia?” Philip has, despite his father’s grumbling, begun courting the daughter of Aaron Burr. “If she’s ended things-”

“She hasn’t,” Philip says miserably. Then, in a voice just above a whisper, he says, “It’s about Georges.”

Georges. Lafayette’s son has all the handsome features and devil-may-care attitude of his father. Alexander has seen the way young girls eyes followed that boy. “Has he sought Theodosia’s hand?”

“No. Just me. Georges respects that and- and he loves me,” Philip says in a rush. “He loves me, pops, and I know that’s not right and it’s not fair and if Theodosia found out-”

Alexander slides down to his knees, to better look his son in the eye. “Shhhhh. Listen to me. What do _you_ feel? Ignore what Theodosia wants, what Georges wants, what do _you_ want?”

“I don’t know,” Philip says. “I’ve brought two girls home before-oh.” He flushes suddenly, under Alexander’s stern look. “Sorry pops. But I did. And this is different. I want to… to court them.”

Alexander wraps his son in a hug. “I will always support you, in whatever you do. And you may find… they are not so unwilling, if they love you and you explain the needs of your heart.”

“How do you know?” Philip asks, with all the skepticism and doubt a seventeen year old can muster. 

“Because I did,” Alexander says softly. Philip looks up, questioning. “Come an sit.” Alexander leads his son over to the sofa. “I want to tell you a story.” The story of a boy with summertime in his heart, of war-torn kisses, of how he loved and loved and lost. How it was worth it, every trial and every loss, to experience the loves that he did. And, maybe, how his son will be just as lucky.


End file.
